SO ANYWAY, AS I pull into the BP servo at north Forbes, an old bloke’s just paid for his fuel and is shuffling back to his car.

“I’m trying to find the cemetery,” I tell him. He squints into the morning sun and smiles.

“Good luck, mate,” he drawls, “I’m trying to stay out of it.”

He chuckles then tells me to just head out on the Bogan Road and I won’t miss it on my left. I pass a sprinkler fanning water onto the front lawn of a cottage obviously the home to a gardener, make a quick note of its location and then pretty soon the grave paddock appears.

At the gate there’s a map of the various sections. (Heaven forbid a Catholic’s bones had to spend eternity clavicle to clavicle with those of a Protestant!) And there’s also a totem post of signs directing to the more famous plots. At the top each such pole is the arrow to Ben Hall’s